


Drafting Boards, Coffee, and Swatches

by Not_You



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe: Murder-free, Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Hannibal, Cats, Crack, Crossdressing Kink, Finally, Fluff, Licking, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Rough Sex, Shaving, Slow Burn, Snails, Synesthesia, even i'm not sure how seriously i'm taking this, just do it you assholes, the slowest burn ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Will shouldn't be here.  He knows that the pressure is too much, but Crawford needs him.  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, preparing to fall into one of his visions, the patterns perfectly clear.  Too clear, and he shudders, his palms flat on the table in front of him.</i>
</p>
<p>Efficiency.  Cold and sleek and perfect.  Line up the angles.  Think about the light. </p>
<p>Short.</p>
<p>Silver.</p>
<p>Sleeveless.</p>
<p>A broad, rolled over scoopneck, three buttons near the hem.</p>
<p>This is my design.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freesia-Scented Pink Goop

Will shouldn't be here. He knows that the pressure is too much, but Crawford needs him. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, preparing to fall into one of his visions, the patterns perfectly clear. Too clear, and he shudders, his palms flat on the table in front of him.

_Efficiency. Cold and sleek and perfect. Line up the angles. Think about the light._

_Short._

_Silver._

_Sleeveless._

_A broad, rolled over scoopneck, three buttons near the hem._

_This is my design._

He opens his eyes and starts to draw. Someone is trying to speak to him, but they don't matter. The vision matters, a retro-futuristic mini-dress, and he doesn't look up until his hands are covered in graphite and Crawford is demanding that he snap out of it and talk to Hannibal, goddammit.

“What?” Will snaps, slamming his pencil down and getting a streak of graphite on his face as he pushes up his glasses.

“I said, talk to Hannibal! You said you couldn't do this collection alone, so here's your help.”

“Good afternoon,” Hannibal adds, as if there's anything good about it. Will curls his lip in disgust.

“I need to finish this sketch,” he says, picking up the pencil again. “You'll forgive me for not shaking hands.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, even while Crawford is seething. “Shall I get you some coffee?”

And here in this status-obsessed snake pit, getting coffee is bitch work, something they make the interns do. But there goes Hannibal, rumored to be the man behind the Teeth collection, fetching Will's coffee. Hopefully he won't poison it. Will shakes off the distraction and gets back to work. 

When he next emerges, there's a cooling cup of coffee at his elbow, prepared just the way he likes it. He drinks it because he might as well, and turns his chair around. He doesn't need to look at the sketch. He knows it's right. This is his design. He shivers, and shakes the tension out of each arm in turn. He rolls his neck and groans, relaxing for a moment with closed eyes before someone clears their throat at his elbow and makes him leap out of his chair, coffee slopping over the rim of the paper cup, free hand to his pounding heart.

“Fucking make more noise further away!”

“My apologies,” Hannibal says. He pulls an actual fucking handkerchief out of his pocket and starts wiping the lukewarm coffee off of Will's hand.

“Whatever,” Will mutters, avoiding eye contact with the ease of long practice.

“I wanted to see if the sketch was done,” Hannibal says, tucking the handkerchief into his trouser pocket.

“Done as it'll get,” Will says, and lets Hannibal look. He looks for a long time, and then smiles.

“...Oh. Yes. I like it. I like it very much.”

“It's not 'trite and facile'?”

“I only said that because I was jealous, Will. Surely you have realized that by now.”

“Maybe I have and maybe I haven't,” he says. The criticism had stung, not least because Will had suspected it of truth.

“It was a little bit trite,” Hannibal says, “but that doesn't mean none of it was profound. I thought the Fairy Collection was actually lovely, just a little bit too accessible.”

Will snorts. “Fashion _should_ be accessible. At the end of the day, real people have to wear this shit.”

Hannibal just smiles. Will side-eyes him but can't do much else, and before he knows it he finds himself accepting an invitation to dinner, since he's been living on granola bars for the last three days. Hannibal takes his arm on the way to the elevator, talking about opera. Will doesn't know much about the subject, but it's not clothes and therefore welcome.

“I might fall asleep,” he hears himself admitting, and Hannibal chuckles.

“I promise to wake you for dinner.”

And he does wake Will for dinner. There's nothing between the elevator and this luxurious leather couch, and he sits up in a sudden lurch, looking around in a panic. Hannibal is crouched on the floor beside the couch, studying Will like he's some kind of injured wild animal unknown to science.

“Easy, Will. There is food now.”

Will chuckles. “Thanks. What are we having?”

“Coq au vin.”

“How did I get here?”

“You walked, in a state of minimal consciousness. You are very tired.”

Will can't really argue this last point, and yawns, rubbing his hands over his face, his glasses crookedly shoved up onto his forehead. “I am.”

“And you have not been eating properly,” he adds, eyes narrowing a little in disapproval.

“That is also true, but you're not my mother, Hannibal.” It comes out more sharply than he wants, and he sighs, putting his glasses on properly again. “Not that I'm not grateful, it smells incredible.”

“I can hardly expect perfect courtesy from a man in such extremity,” Hannibal says. “You have time for a shower, if you would like one.” His nostrils twitch delicately, as if to say, _and I hope you do, because you need one._ And Will would like one. It's not as if he's oblivious to how grimy three days of concerted effort can make him, and he's still sleepy enough to just let Hannibal gently shepherd him to the bathroom.

There are many things a person gives no thought to in day-to-day life, and one of Will's is what Hannibal Lecter's shower would be like. But now he's here, and washing with some kind of freesia-scented pink goop. There's no English on the bottle, so he can't be sure if it's supposed to be a body wash or a three-in-one or some kind of bubble bath, but it works to get three days and nights of nervous sweat off of his skin. The shower head is the moveable kind, and there's an actual bench to sit on. It's handy for getting his feet, Will has to admit.


	2. Bone Accessories

Will is still a bit damp when he emerges from the bathroom, but he does feel much better. Hannibal has set the table like there's going to be a fucking photo shoot, but everything smells even more amazing, and Will supposes he can deal with it. The food turns out to be as good as it smells, and Hannibal is almost obnoxiously gracious even as he preens and watches Will eat like he's somebody's grandma. He has also poured two glasses of some kind of pink wine. Will picks up his glass and examines it for a moment before taking a cautious sniff and then a sip, tilting his head as he ponders it.

“And what do you think?” Hannibal says after a long moment.

“I think I'm a whiskey boy,” Will says, “but this is pretty good.”

Hannibal chuckles. “That will have to do.”

“I don't know anything about wine, and I refuse to pretend.”

“Vastly preferable, I assure you. But tell me, what do you taste in it?”

Will sighs, but consents to play this game, taking another sip and rolling it around his mouth. “...Something almost like rose. A fresh, bright, berry note, and a drier finish. I like it, but that doesn't mean anything.”

Hannibal laughs. “That's what I liked about you when we first met.”

“You liked something about me?” Will raises an eyebrow at him, taking another sip of wine. “You looked at me like some urine-reeking homeless guy who had stolen an invite to swill free wine and stuff the whole buffet down his shirt.”

“Now, now, Will. You did not smell at all unpleasant. Even if you were dressed like a homeless man.”

“...What did I smell like?”

Hannibal's nostril's flare like he's taking a whiff now, to refresh his memory. “You smelled like smoke, and barely like clean sweat, just spoiled by a little acrid note of anxiety. You were also wearing something nicer than that awful aftershave of yours.”

“I keep getting it for Christmas,” Will says. “And I haven't shaved in days.”

“I know,” Hannibal says. “Now you smell like yourself and my freesia body wash. Very nice.”

“You know you're kind of creepy, right?”

“So I have been told.” He sets his glass down with an evil little smile. “So I have been told about you.” Will snorts, sure that he has. “Synesthesia is not common, and people fear what they do not understand.”

“...I thought you were kind of a dick.” He risks a moment of eye contact before looking back at his plate. “When we first met, I mean. Seems pretty uncharitable now.”

Hannibal laughs. “Indeed, but I forgive you.”

After dinner they sit on Hannibal's impossibly nice living room furniture and sip the last of the wine, and after Hannibal's account of the combination of natural taste and all the women in his life being troubled models making a career in the industry inevitable, he turns to Will and asks, “So what got you into fashion?”

“What, you don't believe my interview?”

“I believe that sneaking into your friend's design classes helped you get into the industry, but where does the passion begin? Surely much earlier.”

“...I'm only going to tell you this because I'm half-sloshed, and if you make me regret it I will fucking strangle you, okay?”

“Okay,” Hannibal says, sounding completely serious.

Will sighs. “I never really knew my mother. What I do remember most clearly are her things.” He chuckles, actually amused and trying to hide the self-loathing that comes up when he considers this too long. “I don't know what my mother's face looked like, but I remember her red shoes, and I remember one of her bracelets wrapped three times around my wrist to make it fit. Christ, I was probably two years old. But later. Later it was just nice to have something pretty around. Dad probably worried about it, but he was busy and I wasn't exactly torturing animals and setting fires.”

“Fires, perhaps, but never animals. You're far too gentle.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You're welcome.”

“And then you add in all my weird sensory shit, and clothes are really fascinating. You'll see a girl in blue, and then she laughs and the sound is just gold everywhere, and she looks like a summer sky.” He sips his wine. “I never know when it'll happen. It's a little like sensory overload, but it bothers me a lot less. Some of my stuff is the way it is because of the sounds the shapes make me hear.”

Hannibal smiles. “What a lovely and strange world you must live in.”

“Most people get hung up on the strange,” Will says, trying not to sound as bitter as he feels.

“Most people bore me. I'm pleased to be collaborating with one of the few who doesn't.”

“Ha. What do you think, so far?”

“I think that retro-futuristic kitsch is overdone, but that you and I can elevate it.”

“I never know what counts at kitsch, anymore. And I love sci-fi, so what the hell? My concept has been various types of projected future. Blasted wastes full of robots, utopian cities, returns to prehistory... you know, that kind of stuff.”

“You know far more about the relevant conventions than I do,” Hannibal says. “I'm trying to decided if 'Metropolis' is too overused to even think of referencing.”

“It's overused because it's great, Hannibal,” Will says.

Hannibal chuckles. “Just like you.”

“Nothing is punished like success.” He sighs. “It's not like I don't love it, I just... the way a collection takes over my mind is kind of scary, and I'm getting too old to work thirty-six-hour days.”

“And that is why I am here to help you,” Hannibal says. Will remembers the sharp lines and bone accessories of the Teeth collection, and has a feeling that Hannibal will take to this project just fine.


	3. Dark, Dark Honey

Will isn't used to collaboration at all, but with Hannibal it turns out to be surprisingly easy. It helps that he brings food. Real food, and he's willing to just set a warm container beside Will and walk away without a word. He does the same thing with coffee, and he somehow devises a way to look at Will's unfinished sketches without making him want to punch him in the mouth. It may be because he shows Will his own sketches before they're done. Their influence on each other is already noticeable, and Will has to assume that it will give their collaboration the kind of unity of vision that it needs, even if Will does feel compelled to rein him in sometimes. 

It may be hidebound and joyless to never mix patterns, but paisley and plaid do not go together, no matter what some Lithuanian maniac says. To be fair, Hannibal also has fascinating ideas about the effective use of windowpane check, and Will has a bit of a bias, since too many different prints make this horrible buzzing noise in his head and it crawls into his teeth and makes them itch. That's why one morning he leaps on Hannibal the moment he comes through the door and undoes his tie, snatching it off his neck and cramming it into his pocket where he doesn't have to look at the fucking thing, all goddamn orange juice and mint flavor and hateful buzzing.

“I assume you disapprove,” Hannibal says, apparently perfectly comfortable with his crazed coworker partially disrobing him while everyone stares.

“I. Uh. Yeah,” Will says, taking his hand out of Hannibal's pocket. “Sorry, it just tasted really bad.”

He smiles. “You literally found it in poor taste?”

Will snorts. “Yes.”

“How delightful. Though I am sorry to have offended your palate. Do you feel all right, now?”

“...Still a bit weird, but your jacket is kind of like the skin of wild blueberries. Acid, but not unpleasant. It's a good palate cleanser.”

“Good,” Hannibal says, and follows Will back to his work station, where he's playing with a stiff fabric Beverly found just last night. He's trying to negate the need for any kind of armature in the exaggerated peplum of one of Hannibal's designs, and it looks promising so far. Hannibal carefully fingers the material, a textured white on white that just has a mildly sweet taste even as Will's brain starts to get its shit together and uncross its wires again.

“You really have a delicate touch,” Hannibal is saying when Will starts actually paying attention again. “This is excellent stitching.” He turns and gives Will this proud, fond look that makes him blush and feel like a moron. It's just that a lot of people like his designs, but hardly anyone notices his sewing.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and Hannibal is kind enough to pretend that he isn't being totally awkward. They get into another argument about material, though, since Hannibal wants to keep the textured version and Will thinks that the outfit needs the icy, nearly mentholated flavor that the plain version of the same stuff would give it. It's comforting to be squabbling again, especially because Hannibal doesn't look at Will like he's completely fucking insane when he says things about how the plain tastes and sounds.

In the end they agree to use the plain and to cover the buttons with the figured, and Will feels pleased to have gotten something accomplished before lunch. He says as much to Hannibal, and then puts his headphones on and gets back to his current mockup and the pile of bolt ends he's going to use to create more. Some time much later, he pulls himself out of an operatic delirium of lavender to find a cup of coffee at his elbow. It's perfect, of course, and he looks around for Hannibal, finding him over in Beverly's area. He's listening intently as she talks to him about swatches, and Will smiles, picking up his coffee and drifting over to join them.

“More than anything,” Hannibal is saying, “I have always wanted to work with sea silk.”

Beverly smiles. “Of course you have. I can already tell that it's the rarer the better with you.”

“It wouldn't actually be appropriate for this collection even if we had it, but this gold color made me think of it.” He smiles at Will, and offers him a swatch. “What do you think?”

Will thinks that it's fucking gorgeous, but it takes him a while to say so because the cloth is playing these deep, clear, sweet tones like a carillon in his head and his mouth is full of the taste of dark, dark honey. “It's got him zoning out,” he can dimly hear Beverly saying, “we probably have to use it now.” Will ignores her, thrusting his coffee at Hannibal without even looking to be sure he takes it so he can press the swatch to his face with both hands, bathing in its sleek softness.

“So that's a yes, then,” Beverly says when Will finally looks up, and he laughs, feeling like an idiot.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“For the flight suit, yes?” Hannibal asks, handing Will's unharmed coffee back to him. The items of the collection are all numbered for the sake of everyone's brain, but pieces acquire nicknames as they go, and Will knows exactly which one Hannibal means.

“It seems a little theatrical for something full-coverage.”

Hannibal rolls his eyes and says something in what is apparently Lithuanian. It does not sound like it means 'happy birthday.' “Theatrical, theatrical! Have you no sense of showmanship, Graham?”

Will grins. “Someone has to keep you in check, Lecter.”

“Was that a pun?” Beverly asks, and Will groans.

Hannibal lets out a delighted laugh. “It certainly is now.”


	4. Old Wine And Hoarfrost

“So, seriously,” Beverly says, perched on the corner of Will's favored work table, “why is Hannibal your project-wife?”

Will would ask what she means, but since they're sharing a beautiful bento box made for him by Hannibal's own freakish hands, he has to assume that would just irritate her. Instead he sighs and thinks about it to for a long moment. “I'm not sure, but I think I'm seeing my stray-collecting habit from the other side. I guess I look sad and unkempt and like someone should feed me.”

“Pretty accurate description, there, not gonna lie.”

“Also, I think almost everyone else he associates with is a model, and you know they don't let you feed them.”

“Sometimes they do,” Hannibal says, making them both jump. He smiles, standing there like he never crossed the intervening space. “I've learned a lot about vegan cuisine for Mischa.”

“That's your little sister, right?” Beverly asks, taking another forkful of seaweed salad.

“The littlest, there are two. But Chiyoh eats meat and had the sense to choose a career where being underweight isn't so important.”

Beverly sighs. “Tell her to work for us, we employ women who have things like body fat and melanin.”

“Mischa has precious little of either, but I'll mention it to her.”

Beverly laughs. “Does she look like you?”

“Paler, and far prettier,” he says, and she grins.

“You have your own charm,” Beverly says, hopping off the table when she sees Jimmy come through the door. “You'll have to excuse me, I need to go argue with Jimmy about thread.”

Will and Hannibal nod and wave their farewells, and are suddenly much more alone together than Will would have thought possible in the studio at midday. Nervous, Will turns back to the food, but he can hear Hannibal's smile when he speaks again.

”I'm your project-wife because I find you as attractive as you are talented, in addition to thinking that someone ought to feed you,” he says, and Will does his best not to choke.

“You-- _what_?”

“I understand if our orientations are incompatible,” Hannibal adds, like they're trying to schedule a fucking game of golf or something.

“I... No. No, they're not,” Will says quietly, his head still spinning.

“Good.” He smiles, and Will looks away. Apparently this bento is a courtship gift, but since Will has already eaten almost all of it, there's no reason not to finish.

To Hannibal's infinite credit, he doesn't say anything else about it for the rest of the day, and works with Will like he always has, arguing about patterns and the proper placement of buttons and amount of peplum. It's easier to fall back into than Will would have thought, even if he does keep studying Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, trying to reconcile what he knows about the man with his revelation. Will wasn't prevaricating earlier, but as far as he knows, most of the smart money is on Hannibal being asexual. The man doesn't seem to date, and no one has ever admitted to being his ex, so his hitting on anyone would be strange, let alone Will, the designer who can't dress himself and zones out all the time. 

No matter how good anything he comes up with is, nobody likes watching him molest fabric with his face. Nobody except for Hannibal, apparently. That keeps occurring to him over and over as the day wears on, and it's a relief when everyone leaves for the night. It's good to have the place to himself, to work in the dark and the quiet. He can sit in his little island of light and feel safe as he pores over his designs.

Will wakes up with his face stuck to his drafting board, and groans. He sits back and scrubs his hand over his scruffy jaw, blinking hard a few times and then shuffling into the bathroom to assemble himself into a vaguely human shape. He keeps clean underwear here, and is pulling a fresh t-shirt on as he shuffles back out into the studio. The cotton blinds him for a moment, and when he tugs the shirt down, he catches sight of Hannibal.

Despite it being about seven in the goddamn morning, Hannibal is, of course, impeccable. He smiles at Will and says something that Will doesn't hear over the singing of his jacket. The fabric is a deep purple, with a barest suggestion of checks rendered in silver threads, and Will has to touch it. People say that high, sweet notes are silvery, but for Will silver has always been a low purr. Here it's threaded through the nearly strident, clarion call of the purple, and Will sighs, sliding his hands over it, pressing close and burying his face in Hannibal's shoulder, drowning in the taste of old wine and hoarfrost. He nuzzles into the material and through its phantom tastes he draws in the clean scent of Hannibal, luxuriating in his warmth and then stopping dead, his hands halfway into the jacket to stroke its silvery lining.

“Uh... fuck,” he mutters, trying to draw back and only getting tangled. “Shit, I'm so sorry.” He looks up at Hannibal, who just beams at him.

“I meant to attract you,” he says softly, “I just didn't expect it to work so well.”

“And I didn't mean to just start groping you,” Will mutters.

“You didn't? How disappointing,” he says, teasing. Will can feel himself blushing, and grips the edges of the jacket, staring down at their feet as the fabric purrs and sings in his ears.

“Hannibal...”

“Tell me to stop,” he says. “I won't hold my culinary or design skills hostage.”

“I don't want you to stop,” Will whispers, and Hannibal gently pries his grip loose, lacing their fingers together and bringing one of Will's hands to his mouth, watching his face as he kisses it right over the knuckles in the stereotypically Continental way. Will shivers as Hannibal places a line of kisses to the inside of his wrist, where he sighs softly, gently biting onto the pulse point. Will can't help a pathetic little whine, and he leans in almost before he knows he's doing it, nuzzling Hannibal's cheek, the motion coaxing him to align the right way for Will to kiss him on the mouth. Even as the sound and taste of the suit recede, Will still feels like he's in a dream, somewhere quiet and slow and warm, barely lit by the rising sun.


	5. The Heart Of A Pine Forest In Summer

Just like the first admission, Hannibal acts as if frantically making out with his collaborator first thing in the morning is completely normal. At first it's a little jarring, but it becomes more soothing as the day goes on. They work and argue as if nothing has happened, and Will could fool himself into thinking nothing had if he didn't taste something like old brandy and sweet blood whenever he looks into Hannibal's eyes. He tries not to look too often, but finds himself doing it again and again.

Now Will isn't looking at anyone, deep in one of Hannibal's designs, admiring the clean lines of the bodice while he alters the skirt to make the whole thing just a bit more Art Deco. The shapes are playing a soft, shimmery line of bells in his head, and he's so absorbed that he doesn't hear Hannibal approach or notice him standing beside his drafting board until the drawing is done.

“How long have you been there?” He mutters, rubbing at his eyes and fighting the sudden urge to cover his work.

Hannibal smiles. “Somewhere between one and five minutes,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

And it's like he has said the magic word, a single utterance that makes Will's appetite come roaring out of obscurity to remind him that the last time he ate real food was lunch yesterday. He winces. “Yeah. Kind of a lot.”

“Come to lunch with me?”

“...Is this a date?” Will mumbles, suddenly acutely conscious of his of his graphite-smeared face, third-day wino stubble, and ragged plaid shirt.

“Yes,” Hannibal says with another, wider smile. “There is an excellent sushi bar near here.”

Will looks up and tastes the color of his eyes again. “...Okay,” he says softly, and Hannibal almost beams at him.

Will takes a moment or two to wash his face and hands, and then digs through his portion of the closet space for the deep green shirt that had been part of one of last year's winter ensembles, hanging his tattered plaid in its place and buttoning it over his t-shirt. It's more than a little showy for Will, but he can't convince himself that it actually looks bad. The fabric is shot silk, the deep green warp giving the main color, the golden weft adding gleaming highlights. It looks like the heart of a pine forest in summer and tastes almost like plain cheesecake, the golden glimmer adding a low bell-note and a faint flavor of fresh apple. 

Models are almost always taller than Will, but seldom any broader. The shirt fits his shoulders as if it was tailored for him, and if the hem hits closer to his knees that it's designed to, it doesn't look ridiculous. The slight flare from the waist suits this tunic-y fit, and as soon as he has the sleeves rolled up off of his hands, Will feels that he's as presentable as he can get on short notice. He's not sure if the way Hannibal looks at him when he comes to join him in the lobby is more encouraging or embarrassing.

The sushi bar Hannibal is talking about turns out to be the one just two blocks up, part of the gleaming mall that Will has never been able to drag himself into. It's all so bright and colorful and so densely populated with complete douchebags that Will never thinks to do it when he has the spoons to cope, even if there are supposedly several amazing restaurants and a lot of good ones. Hannibal walks on the outside edge of the sidewalk like a real gentleman, and holds one of the many glass doors for Will when they arrive.

“Don't worry,” Hannibal says, taking Will's arm as he winces and wobbles a little bit, “we're going to be hiding in the back.”

Sure enough, they go up two levels and then go back to what may be the quietest area in the whole massive building. There's even an empty storefront here. Hannibal tells him that it's the subject of bitter contention between several companies but will probably end up as a Sephora, and then ushers him into Umi to Oka.

For a guy like Will, restaurant decor is incredibly important. Since he never knows when he's going to start tasting and hearing colors, less is more, and he's very glad to see that the interior is dim, with black and white paintings and calligraphy on the walls, and black glass tabletops, each one bearing a little pottery jug of soy sauce, a small stack of matching dishes for it, and a single branch of autumnal red leaves of what's probably Japanese maple. The red sings to Will, and he's a little out of it as the hostess greets them. Hannibal asks for seats at the bar, and Will settles onto the stool next to him as the hostess sets down menus and water before flitting away again. The chef is a gorgeous woman with an interesting ethereal quality. Her black eyes seem to look through them for a moment before she bows slightly.

“Irasshaimase,” she says, a little glassy shimmer of light falling out of her mouth with the sound. Will blinks to try and clear his vision, and Hannibal chuckles.

“Really, Chiyoh, must you pretend not to know me?”

“I prefer to be professional,” she says, and Will smiles, realizing that this is Hannibal's sister. “The lunch special today is chirashizushi,” she says, “and our uni is particularly fine.” Her poise is icy, and Hannibal grins at her.

“Imouto-chan wa kawaii,” he coos, and she rolls her eyes.

“If you must be familiar, introduce me to your friend,” she says.

“I thought you'd never ask. Chiyoh darling, this is Will Graham.”

She tries to hide it, but her eyes light up and she bows again. “Mr. Graham. I enjoy your work very much.”

“By which she means that it makes up half of her wardrobe,” Hannibal says, and Chiyoh actually goes pink for a moment, the human reaction utterly charming.

“I'm honored,” Will says, and she smiles at him, the expression making her face less perfect and much more beautiful.


	6. Some Kind Of Miniature Sasquatch

Will is not surprised to see a family resemblance in the way that Chiyoh handles the tools of her trade. She may resent Hannibal's familiarity when she's on the clock, but she is happy to accept sake when Hannibal orders it for the three of them, on the grounds that he and Chiyoh love it, and that Will should try it at some point in his life.

“If you don't like it I'll drink it,” Hannibal adds, and Will chuckles.

“Real gallant of you.”

The sake turns out to be nice and smooth, and the fish is flawless. Hannibal orders the special, and they watch as Chiyoh arranges the fish in the shape of a butterfly atop the rice, movements quick and precise with long practice.

“I have to ask,” Will says, as she hands it over the case, “does the whole family cook?”

“Even our little Mischa,” Chiyoh says.

“For a given value of 'cooked,' given that she's gone raw food on us,” Hannibal adds, and then thanks Chiyoh, politely waiting for her to assemble Will's order and his two pieces of uni. When he learns that Will has never had it, he insists that he take one precious mustard-orange bite.

“It'll be wasted if I don't like it,” Will says, trying to keep the fretful tone out of his voice.

“It will not be a waste,” Hannibal says, “because then you will know that you do not like it, rather than inhabiting the hell of uncertainty.”

Will snorts. “Hardly hell,” he says, but carefully picks up one piece, eying the firm, gelid mass warily. The texture is very like that of the human tongue, and he can't help glancing at Hannibal as he places it in his mouth. Hannibal watches him, and they're definitely having some kind of weird moment before the bitter-brine-cream-kazoo taste of the stuff registers and he has to fight with his instinct to spit it out. Beyond being gross and impolite, it's a matter of pride, and Will grimaces and swallows hard. The expression on his face must be priceless, because it's enough to make Chiyoh giggle, however briefly.

“And now you know,” Hannibal says, looking profoundly amused.

Will downs half of his glass of water. “And now I know. Bleh.” He shrugs. “More for you, right?”

“Right.”

They end up taking a longer lunch than Will usually does this close to deadline. Of course, his 'close to deadline' is other people's 'plenty of time yet,' and he can't deny that he feels a lot better as they make their slow way back. They don't talk on the way, slightly buzzed and comfortable together. Will likes people who don't always make him talk, and he's especially grateful for it as they step back into the usual chaos.

Another nice thing about Hannibal is his ability to compartmentalize, allowing them to actually get some work done in the course of the afternoon, even if they are buzzed on sake and protein. And also hormones, but Will really isn't thinking about that. If he thinks about that, he'll stop getting anything done. As it is he puts his ragged shirt back on, ignores Beverly's crack about Cinderella, and gets a lot done. Somewhere in the background Hannibal is talking to Price about shoes and Zeller is paying up on some kind of bet with Beverly, but Will is consumed by his design.

Will is shocked to glance at the time and see that it's already eight pm. He rubs his eyes and wonders if Hannibal will bring him one of those perfectly-timed cups of coffee. He does comes walking up a moment later, but unfortunately there is no coffee involved. Will sighs.

“I don't want to find you stuck to your drafting board again,” Hannibal says, and Will chuckles.

“Thanks for your concern.” He yawns so hard it makes his jaw crack, and grimaces.

“You're welcome to come home with me.”

“Can we just cuddle?” Will says, trying to sound as sarcastic as possible.

“We can do or refrain from doing whatever you like, Will. Come.” He offers him a hand up, and Will takes it. It's a lot like his first visit to Hannibal's home, but this time he manages to stay awake and witness the approach to the building, and the long elevator ride to the right floor. He does stumble straight to the couch and lie down the way he must have done last time, which is kind of funny, if a little sad. He says as much to Hannibal, who just laughs and hangs up his jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves up and vanishing into the kitchen, returning with a glass of ice water and the promise of food.

“Does this count as two dates in a single day?” He asks, propping himself up and taking the glass.

Hannibal makes a feline little noise of amusement. “If you like.”

“Feel like I should have changed again.”

“Charming as you are in worn flannel, beautiful clothing does set you off nicely. I wonder why you don't wear it more often.”

Will chuckles, sitting up and feeling ridiculous and pathetic all over again. “There's kind of a reason for that. I'll go into it if you don't laugh.”

“Let me put everything in the oven,” Hannibal says, “and then I will listen, and I swear I won't laugh.”

He must have whatever it is already prepped, because he comes back within five minutes with his own glass of water, and sits on the couch beside Will, eyes aglow with sympathetic curiosity. Will takes a deep breath. “Okay. I don't pay more attention to what I wear because I'm a sad thwarted crossdresser.”

“Thwarted in what way?”

“In what—look at me!. I'm like some kind of miniature Sasquatch.”

“Many noble, notable, and beautiful women have been hairy and lived in the woods, Will,” Hannibal says, and he sounds so serious that Will has to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the sublimely ridiculous 'Texts From Hannibal,' Chilton describes Will as some sort of hot Sasquatch, and it has stuck with me.


	7. Snail-Style

Hannibal lets the subject rest until after dinner and a shower for each of them. It's only as they're settling into his enormous bed, clean and contented, that he brings it up again. Will kind of hates him for it, but only for a moment.

“I find it very hard to believe that you don't feel pretty, Will,” Hannibal says, studying him. Will has bogarted Hannibal's tablet to try and beat some of his appallingly high Candy Crush scores, and refuses to look up.

“Please,” he says, inwardly cursing a lack of adjacent blue candies. “I'm not really into suits on myself, and we've talked about dresses.”

“Would you wear one if you felt pretty in it?”

Will runs out of moves, and sighs. “Yeah.”

He looks up at last, and Hannibal is smiling at him. “Let me help you, Will.”

“...Help me?”

“I'd like to prove you wrong.”

Will stares at him for a while, not sure whether or not Hannibal is making fun of him. “Are you offering to doll me up?”

“Yes, Will. Let me offer you another way to be intoxicating.”

He snorts. “You can try, anyway.”

Hannibal chuckles. “I will succeed.”

By the time they're actually making an effort to sleep, Will is committed. He hasn't let anyone beautify him since Beverly dragged him to the Katz family Christmas party and her little nieces had braided red and green curling ribbon into his hair, and now he sees the cowardice in that for what it is. He's afraid of how the attempt will turn out, and that's no way to live. He cuddles into Hannibal's arms and spares a thought for the cats. He brings them to the city because they don't mind the tiny apartment he uses as a landing pad when he's in the middle of whipping collections into shape, or his long and erratic absences. It would be hell for the dogs, so they stay in Wolf Trap with Alana.

“Thinking of a loved one?” Hannibal murmurs, and Will chuckles.

“My pets, mostly. And the friend who's house-sitting for me.” He yawns, and rests there with his eyes closed for a long moment.

“I keep a terrarium full of snails,” Hannibal volunteers, and something about the way he says it makes Will laugh. 

He looks up at Hannibal in the dim glow of the streetlights outside, grinning. “Okay, now you have to show me.”

“They are awake now,” Hannibal concedes, and kisses the top of Will's head before letting him go, stretching his arms over his head and then rolling out of bed to put on a robe. He finds another one for Will to wear, and then takes his hand and leads him to the kitchen and through a door that Will had assumed lead to a pantry or similar storage. He was right, but he had had no idea of how much of a pantry. The place is amazing, full of growing herbs and homemade sausage and all the other things no one does at home anymore, much less in an apartment. 

Will stands and looks at it all for a long moment, while Hannibal preens beside him. “Okay,” Will says at last, “I'm impressed.”

“That gratifies me, for I am but a weak and feeble man. Come,” he says, and escorts Will to a corner lit only by a dim, bluish bulb that's almost like moonlight, filling Will's ears with its phantom hum. The terrarium is a huge glass box, and sure enough, it's seething with snails. They crawl over the glass, the stones, the plants, and each other. It's a slow, slimy dance, and Will finds it hard to look away. The gelid, sinuous movements make odd and languorous chiming notes, and Will has never heard anything quite like them.

“They're so weird,” Will says, crouching to see better, “but so cute.”

“Is it weird that I keep them?”

“Yes, but that's also cute.”

“Is it still cute if I eat some of them?”

Will ponders that for a moment and then looks up at him. “There's only so much room in the tank. And you seem like an escargot kinda guy.”

Hannibal chuckles, and crouches beside Will. “They'll eat one another, too.”

“Somehow that doesn't surprise me,” Will says, and looks over at him. In this light the dramatic bones of his face form shapes that taste like silver sounds and Will shivers, seized by the sudden and supposedly bizarre urge to run his tongue along one cheekbone. It makes perfect sense to Will, but he's old enough to know that others don't see it that way. He shakes his head a little in an effort to clear it, and stands up.

Hannibal moves with him, looking a little concerned. “Will?”

Will shakes his head, rubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry. Trying not to do anything weird.”

“Will, if weird behavior put me off, we would not be here now. I enjoy your strangeness, and I hope you enjoy mine.”

Will snorts, strange sensory impressions receding a little. “I do, snail-boy.”

“Do you know how snails mate?” Hannibal asks, taking his hand.

“Very slowly?” Will asks, and Hannibal laughs as they walk back to the bedroom.

“It begins cautiously,” Hannibal says as they settle back into bed. “and yes, very slowly. They approach one another, and make a few tentative passes, touching each other lightly and drawing back again, circling each other. This can go on for six hours.” Will snuggles up to his chest, listening. Hannibal rubs slow circles on his back as he continues, “They nibble at each other's genital pores, or more technically lick them, having radulae rather than teeth.”

“A nice slow build with some oral,” Will murmurs, “sounds okay so far.”

“The next step is to fire calcerous darts into one another,” Hannibal says, and Will lets out a yelp of laughter.

“I may be weird, but I'll have to draw the line at doing it snail-style.”

Hannibal grins down at him. “I think that is a compromise I can stand to make.”


	8. Checking On The Cats

Will wakes up to the scent of brewing coffee, and sits up, completely disoriented before he remembers where he is. He rolls out of Hannibal's huge bed and puts on yesterday's clothes, wandering into the kitchen to find Hannibal scrambling eggs and sausage. He's wearing a wine-red bathrobe that sings a rich, high note, and he's bathed in dandelion jam sunlight. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at Will.

“Good morning,” he says. “I know you like to be at the studio by eight, but I was hoping we could delay until nine.”

“...I do need to check on the cats,” Will says.

“May I come with you? I'd like to meet them.”

“Are we at that point in our relationship?” Will asks, meaning it for a deadpan joke and touched by the brief flicker of worry in Hannibal's eyes when he glances back again. Will smiles at him, hugging him from behind as he transfers the food to two plates. “Yeah,” Will says quietly, “we are.”

Of course the eggs are fluffy and moist and the sausage compliments them perfectly. “I've got to ask,” Will says, halfway through his portion, “are you even capable of making bad food?”

“While I am yet mortal, I must assume so,” Hannibal says, “but it has been a very long time.”

After breakfast, Will is a bit worried about how long it might take Hannibal to select his ensemble for the day, but he's knotting yet another paisley tie by the time Will has crammed himself back into yesterday's clothes. At least the suit isn't windowpane check or plaid, and the whole thing has a pleasant sort of smoky vanilla taste. It fills the cab on the way to Will's apartment, and he's slightly dazed when they get out. Hannibal pays the driver while Will is getting his head together, and when Will grumbles about it, he just laughs.

“You can pay our way to the studio, if you like,” he says, and graciously ignores how much less posh the lobby is here than in his own building. Not generally living in the city, Will doesn't see the point in shelling out for real quality. He just finds the best short-term rates he can get without worrying that the neighbors will break in to steal or eat the cats, and leaves it at that. The elevator is pretty dingy and horrible, but Hannibal doesn't say anything about it, and follows Will to his door with a look of interest on his face that gives him a family resemblance to the cats. Will unlocks it and trills quietly. Sammy comes trotting up with Peanut Butter, Frangelico lurking somewhere in the depths of the apartment with feline dignity.

“There's three total,” Will says, crouching and petting both of them as they purr thunderously and rub their heads against him, “but the last one is more standoffish.” Peanut Butter trills happily and starts investigating Hannibal's shoes. “Of course, most living beings are more standoffish than Peanut Butter,” he adds, as Hannibal crouches to pet the cat and then laughs as she climbs into his arms.

“Peanut Butter, you say? I thought white tasted more like mint.”

Will chuckles, giving Sammy a last stroke and then standing and going to the kitchen to check on the water dispenser. “For some reason, her fur tastes like peanut butter. I figured there was no point in fighting it.”

“Can you hear, Peanut Butter?” Hannibal croons, cuddling her in one arm as Sammy butts against his other hand to demand affection.

“She can't,” Will says. “Totally deaf. Sammy is pretty much her helpercat. Lets her know when I get home, crams her into a good hiding spot when it thunders...” He rinses and refills the bowls of standing water and tops off the dispenser.

“Aren't you community-minded?” Hannibal asks Sammy, gently scritching him under the chin. “And so handsome, too.” His voice is rising into the syrupy register that people use with cute little animals, and the sheer incongruity makes it adorable. “Such nice stripes,” he continues, doting on both cats. “I wonder what a lovely black and grey tabby tastes like?”

“For whatever reason, I don't taste Sammy so much,” Will says, coming over to collect Peanut Butter, who curls up in his arms like a baby and gazes up at him with one blue eye and one yellow as she reaches up to pat his face with one tiny white paw. Will presses a kiss to the top of her tiny head. “I guess it's kinda like rain, when it happens.”

“How lovely,” Hannibal says, and then, to Sammy, “you are a lovely cat.”

Will chuckles and sets Peanut Butter down, heading deeper into the apartment to check on things, clean the litter boxes, and to find Frangelico lurking on a bookshelf and looking horribly betrayed by Will's deranged choice to bring a foreign devil home with him. Still, he deigns to let Will stroke his sleek, seal-brown face with one fingertip, and when Will gets back from shoving the trash bags down the chute, Frangelico is sitting in the doorway of the kitchen, studying Hannibal, who, with excellent intuition, is ignoring him while lavishing the other cats with affection. Will clicks to him, and soon has the cat in his arms. For all his protestations, Frangelico is not averse to being held. His long fur makes him an even softer armful than the others, and he purrs, tail swishing slowly.

“Was Frangelico named on the same principle as Peanut Butter?” Hannibal asks.

“Yeah,” Will says. “The first time I had to stay here for longer than a week, I was going into animal withdrawal when I found Frangelico in a dumpster. The rest is history.”

They linger for another fifteen minutes or so before Will's sense of professionalism starts getting to him. He pays for the cab to the studio, ignoring the amused expression in Hannibal's eyes.


	9. Will Needs A Break

It's early afternoon when Will remembers why he was so anxious about coming back to the city. The whole studio is full of light, but it's not dandelion jam or even just watered down kiwi-strawberry juice, but hot brass with incoming thunder, and the air is thick with unseasonable heat and it has been a really loud day, a lot of chatter and clattering machines and the thumping of equipment being dragged around and now Jack wants his input on models. 

Will hates choosing models. It's being picked last for soccer all over again, only now he's on the other side and it's way more important. Working for Jack's house can be a young girl's big break, and Will can't stand to see the hope in all those eyes, faces carefully composed for the camera as each individual human struggles to contort herself into the most marketable shape.

At least Jack hates a lineup of clones and likes to give black girls precedence, if anything. It's almost okay if Will steps back completely and looks at nothing but aesthetics, if he reduces these people to angles and light. But doing that makes him feel like a butcher, and now he rubs his eyes as it tries to swallow him up, a tension headache building behind his eyes.

“Dammit, Jack, I hate this, I'm not good at it, and I told you to stop asking me!” he snaps, the sunlight going flatter than ever and starting to buzz in his ears like some horrible and incomprehensible machine. He knows his tone is too sharp, but the buzz is almost a rattle now, and closing his eyes just makes everything taste like horrible red cough syrup and with that comes a gagging, sticky impression in his mouth, a kind of logical echo of the vile taste. Jack is asking a bunch of questions that are like needles through the sunlight, and Will clamps his hands over his ears, which is hardly respectful but does help his headache. It does nothing for the taste, and he's about to stumble to his feet in case he has to find somewhere acceptable to throw up when Hannibal drapes his jacket over Will's head. It smells like Hannibal and when Will covers his eyes with it, the blackness behind them is its usual mild, milky taste, with little bits of multicolored sweetness, making the phantom taste disappear. The nausea doesn't go with it immediately, but it starts to fade.

“--As you can see,” Hannibal is saying when Will tunes back in, “he needs a break.”

“Looks like he does,” Jack says, sounding a little guilty.

“Mostly the weather,” Will rasps, wondering when the fuck his throat got so dry. 

“Which shows no sign of improvement,” Hannibal says, putting a cool takeout cup in his hand. Will takes a long sip through the straw without even looking, and tastes the sweet tea he always gets at the juice bar on the ground floor. It's immensely soothing right now, and soon he can take the jacket off of his head. The light still tastes like brass, but it's receding now.

“Are you all right?” Jack asks, and Will nods, rubbing his eyes and then passing Hannibal's jacket back to him. It must be hot, he just drapes it over his arm. The top button of his shirt is even undone, tie pulled low enough to accommodate it.

“Yeah, but I think Hannibal might be right.” It's hard to make himself leave, but it really is mostly in Beverly's hands, now, and it's not like Beverly ever does a bad job, and she has both of her trusted minions, none of this crap temporary help. He closes his eyes for a moment and the cough syrup taste starts to come back, so he opens them again and gives his head the little shake that doesn't actually help but is ineradicable habit. “Ugh. Yeah, definitely.”

Of course, Jack still wants Will's fucking input, but at least this way they can just take these particular hard copies and go. The heat and yellow light are more oppressive than ever, but it's easier to bear away from the studio's huge windows. Natural light is important for color and reducing the electricity bill, but on a day like today it turns the place into a fucking oven.

“...I know my place is relatively scummy,” Will says, as they stand on the corner and wait for a cab, eyeing the bulwark of massive grey clouds moving in as the light gets even flatter and more yellow, “but I want my cats and a drink I've already paid for.” He stops, and then realizes how inhospitable that sounds. “And to give you one if you want to come with me, I mean. I can talk like a person, I swear. Please come back to my place for whiskey and cats. There.”

Hannibal smiles. “I am particularly fond of whiskey and cats, and would be delighted to join you.”

Will smiles back. “Good.”

“How do you feel about giving some time to our other project later on?”

“Other—oh.” Will can feel himself blushing. “Okay. Yeah, we should.” He takes deep breaths and thinks calming thoughts as a cab pulls up for them and Hannibal gives the driver his own address, because he already has supplies and Will isn't sure he can deal with that. Sitting there with the driver in silence is awkward, but at least he has the sense to just find something he likes on the radio and leave Will alone. Hannibal returns quickly, carrying a suitcase, and Will wonders again just how much thought he has put into this.


	10. Fifteen Minutes Of Actually Trying To Concentrate

The storm breaks on their way back to Will's apartment, and they leave the cab at top speed, getting soaked in the fifteen feet or so to the door. They stand dripping in the dingy elevator, and Hannibal fusses about his tie while Will snickers at him.

“This is why it pays to dress like a hobo.”

“Not all of us have the right intersection of raffish and waifish charm to make it work,” Hannibal says, carefully unknotting his tie. Will smiles, amused by the prissy way he does it.

Once they actually reach the apartment, Will is treated to a fascinating little performance. After greeting Sammy and Peanut Butter, he goes into the kitchen and puts some water on to boil, finding a clean dish towel and laying it out beside the stove, and then carefully placing the tie on it. Will is still crouched on the mat, with his arms full of two purring cats. He scratches Peanut Butter behind the ears and murmurs to Sammy that he won't let the Thunder Bird eat him.

“Is that how you get water spots out of silk?” Will asks, as the water begins to steam.

“It's how I do it,” Hannibal says, pulling a goddamned snow white handkerchief out of some inner pocket. Will continues to dote on the cats because Peanut Butter is in love with love and Sammy hates thundery days. Not like a dog, or Will wouldn't leave him alone, but still, a little TLC goes a long way.

“I just cave in and get it dry-cleaned,” Will says, and Hannibal chuckles.

“A swindle, most of the time.” He carefully holds the affected portion of the tie in the cloud of steam that has developed.

“...Do you seriously carry a silk handkerchief everywhere?” Will has heard of the silk-on-silk method, but that's for people who are doing it to their own wardrobes and not sending an evening gown through Du Maurier's for the runway special while Jack Crawford yells at the hapless fuck who let it get wet, hot coals pouring out of his mouth.

“They come in handy much more often than one would suppose,” Hannibal says, switching off the burner and tenderly rubbing the handkerchief over and over the tie.

Once Will is reasonably sure that disaster has been averted, he sets both cats down and goes to pour the whiskey. Hannibal leaves his precious neckwear to dry, and they settle onto Will's couch to go through the photos, the folder only slightly damp. Hannibal actually enjoys choosing models, but even he has no patience for it today. The suitcase is sitting there by the door, watching them. Will has to assume that there's more inside it than two dresses for choice, and conjecturing about that is really cutting into his ability to care which living clothes rack is the prettiest. 

After about fifteen minutes of actually trying to concentrate, they give up and send Jack an email with recommendations that are mostly Hannibal's. As long as that Reba girl wears the flightsuit for them, Will really doesn't care. Hannibal laughs as he filters this into more politic words and then hits Send, leaving them alone with the cats, the whiskey, the noises of thunder and hard rain against the windows, and each other.

Hannibal takes a long sip of his drink, apparently content to sit there with Will's laptop for the rest of time. Peanut Butter has draped herself across his shoulders like a stole, because cats on the crappy, already-clogged keyboard get the squirter and they all know it. Peanut Butter, being a peaceable soul, just does her quiet best with that, while Will has to just keep a hand free to shove Frangelico away, because every now and then he decides that Will must not be serious about his Draconian 'no cats on the laptop' policy. At least Hannibal is still under the umbrella of Stranger Danger, even if Frangelico has already graciously condescended to sniff at the toes of his shoes, a mark of high esteem.

“Fucking Christ,” Will says as the silence stretches out and his nerves wind tighter, “let's just dress me up already.”

“I thought you'd never ask,” Hannibal says, deadpan but with sparkling eyes. “I feel that we should begin with a bath, if you have a bath. Otherwise, a shower will do.”

“It's a shitty little plastic tub like in a low-rate but not horrible hotel, but it should probably do.”

“You mentioned body hair as a concern,” Hannibal says.

“...You want to shave me?” Will tries not to squawk, but he's not sure he's successful. 

Hannibal smiles, wide and slow. “I would enjoy it a great deal,” he says, and Will swallows hard.

“Okay. But be careful.”

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal says, and gets up to run him a bath, Peanut Butter riding on his shoulder as Sammy trots at his heels. It's like he fucking lives here, and it's surreal enough that Will knocks back the rest of his whiskey and pours himself another. Hannibal hasn't actually told him not to open the suitcase, but he feels like he shouldn't, the way he used to feel when he was a kid and would always figure out where Dad had hidden the Christmas presents.

Sammy and Peanut Butter precede Hannibal out of the bathroom as he comes to collect the suitcase, shirtless, rumpled, and laughing softly. He's gorgeous like this, and it takes Will a moment to catch up to the fact that he is saying actual human words. In English, even.

“I think Peanut Butter wanted a bath, and Sammy was afraid of one.”

“You're probably right,” Will says when he can peel his tongue off of the roof of his mouth, “Peanut Butter's a freak like that. Part fisher cat or something.”

“Come,” Hannibal says, “a tub that size is probably half-full already.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Will says, standing and pulling off both of his shirts, “we should have done this at your place, but then we wouldn't have the pawing and mewing at the door that's so important to me.”

Hannibal just chuckles, picking up the suitcase and following Will into the bathroom.


	11. Purring Metal

The tub is fucking tiny and the plastic kind of tastes like one of those godawful cotton candy flavored suckers, but the water is hot enough to steam. Will settles into it with a sigh as Hannibal switches the faucet off, and tips his head back onto the rim of the tub, closing his eyes. For the past six weeks or so he has been in project mode, scrubbing off five minutes at a time when he remembers it or starts to stink, whichever comes first. Now he just soaks, listening to the tiny sounds of lapping water and to Hannibal as he opens the suitcase and begins taking things out of it.

“Do you want the unscented lotion?”

“What are my other options?”

“I brought the one I use on my own face, and rose. Mine is some kind of artificial civet and a little sandalwood.”

“I like sandalwood,” Will mumbles, sinking a little lower into the water. “It smells kinda like dark, bluish purple tastes.”

Hannibal chuckles, and then holds a bottle under Will's nose. “Check and be sure,” he says, and Will sniffs it carefully, recognizing one component of Hannibal's scent.

“That's good,” he says, stretching one arm, and there's a light splash as Hannibal reaches into the water, his hand loosely curling around Will's ankle. 

“Now that you've made your decision, relax and let me shave you.” Will chuckles, and obeys, letting out a little purring noise as Hannibal lifts his foot out of the water and starts to work the lotion into his calf. Will has never really understood the appeal from either side, but then again, two-day wino trim is the closest he really gets to a clean shave these days. And he sure as hell doesn't use a straight razor. He can't help but be a little alarmed when he cracks his eyes just enough to see what kind of blade Hannibal is dragging down his leg, but by that point almost everything below the knee is done.

“Is that what you use on yourself?” He asks, fascinated by the gleaming blade and the smooth wooden handle.

“Of course,” Hannibal says, dipping the blade in the bath water and rubbing more lotion into Will's skin. “If it makes you nervous, I can exchange it for a safety razor.” He glides the blade along Will's shin as he speaks, taking every hair off of the taut skin without even the barely-there tug of an averted cut.

“I've slashed myself up pretty good with safety razors,” Will says, feeling a strange frisson of lust at the easy way Hannibal pulls his leg a little further up to rest the ankle on his shoulder as he makes sure that everything from the knee down is completely smooth before moving higher. 

It's a weird feeling, almost a kind of numbness. Will never would have thought that his leg-hair was operating like whiskers, but it was. It's almost as fascinating as the feeling of the hairless skin under his palm as Hannibal does the other leg. At last, Will is smooth from the middle of his thighs to the tops of his feet, and even the water feels different. He stares at his own legs as he rinses them, and when he looks up, Hannibal is smiling at him, fond and amused, his gaze tasting like sweet blood and old brandy.

“Would you like a safety razor for your face?”

“...I guess we'll have to see if you scare me,” Will says, and Hannibal smiles, gently rubbing lotion into his jaw, the taste of purple with orange flashes filling Will's mouth.

“We'll see,” he says, and brings up the wicked silver gleam of the razor. 

It purrs against Will's skin, almost too low for his phantom ears to ear. Hannibal is slower here, and even more careful. He gets the difficult little spots under the nose and beside the ears, and Will doesn't hesitate to tilt his head back, half hard at the feel of that purring metal so close to his pulse. He's a little dazed when it stops, and can't help a quiet moan as Hannibal sides a gentle hand along his throat and up under his jaw. He caresses Will's cheek, and Will nuzzles into his palm. Hannibal leans down and kisses him, purring like the razor when Will wraps his arms around his neck and melts completely. When he finally pulls away, Will whines, and he chuckles.

“You know the water is getting cold. Come on.” He helps Will to stand and step onto the bath mat, and wraps a towel around him.

“So,” Will says, amused at the solicitous way that Hannibal rubs him dry, “what else have you brought me?”

Hannibal glances back at the suitcase. “My makeup palette, a few pieces of jewelry, two dresses to choose from, and undergarments if you want them. Shoes seemed like a premature commitment.”

“Shoes might be a bit much,” Will says. Jewelry seems like a bit much, but Will really enjoys some pieces. Metal and stones have such an interesting quality to the flavors of their colors. The suitcase is closed again, and Will is so unbearably curious that he almost doesn't mind when Hannibal stops touching him in order to pick it up and lead the way out.

“Shoo,” Will growls at Frangelico, “it's adult time.” Frangelico looks at him in utter disgust, but hops off of the bed and prowls out. Will shuts the door, and a quick sweep of the room assures him that Peanut Butter and Sammy aren't lurking. Hannibal chuckles, opening the case again and pulling out a little zippered Dior palette.

“I always carry my own,” he says, answering Will's unspoken question. “This one, and one for dark skin. It's only enough to do touch-ups or offer a couple of alternative shades, but you of all people know that sometimes less is more.”


	12. Some Kind Of Iced Berry That Doesn't Exist

There's good lighting in here, and a full-length mirror for Will to look at the fruits of their labor whenever he feels brave enough. For now he spreads his towel on the bed and sits at the edge of the mattress as Hannibal opens a bag of fresh disposable applicators. They probably have a distinct name, but Will doesn't know it. He isn't usually involved at this end of things. Hannibal puts two gentle fingers under his chin and tells him to look up, carefully lining Will's lower lids with smudgy black. 

He sighs. “Oh, the things we could do with a tube of mascara.”

“Next time,” Will says, blushes at the way Hannibal's eyes light up.

“Sure,” he says, “next time. Close your eyes.” 

Eyeshadow feels strange on Will's skin, dry and soft and a little bit tart. Blush feels the same, and lipstick is creamy-slick and maybe a little too interesting. He squirms as Hannibal applies it, and the soft command to stay still doesn't do much to help. At this point Will thinks that they're done, but when he opens his eyes Hannibal is putting product onto his fingertips, so like the application of lube that Will has to bite his lip to keep back some desperate little noise. Hannibal rubs them together and then runs his fingers through Will's hair. It's getting long again, and Hannibal tugs it around a little as he arranges it in a way that makes Will hope that he'll pull it later.

“There,” Hannibal says, “very pretty.”

The really weird part is that it is. Will doesn't look exactly girlish when he looks in the mirror, but he doesn't look stupid, either. The blush is a little doll-like, and the black and silver shadow on his eyes and the pink gleam of his lips make him look unreal. He wonders if his eyes were always this blue and then feels embarrassed at his own narcissism.

“Aren't you lovely?” Hannibal says softly, and Will blushes.

“What now?”

Apparently the next step is jewelry. Just a little earring and necklace set probably meant for a tweenage girl, but the cheap metal tastes good the same way bright-orange fake cheese does, and the dangly pink rhinestones make a pretty little tinkling noise in Will's head. The earrings are clips, which is just as well since Will's one pierced ear has long since healed over. The clips pinch like a bitch. It's a little surprising, even to a man who witnesses some of what the models go through.

“Too tight?” Hannibal asks, and Will shakes his head. It hurts, but that's not enough to deter him. The lingerie almost is, though. It's just so fucking pretty, and it reminds him a little of Rocky Horror Picture Show, which is two out of three strikes against. But on the other hand... it isn't silk, it's something that feels like it but can get wet, which is good because Will is already on the verge of dripping precome. The Swiss belt and panties are each the same beautiful, trilling blue, the color of a summer sky and the flavor of some kind of iced berry that doesn't exist. There's a subtle, gleaming, blue-on-blue paisley pattern that adds a complex, frosty, acid taste, and Will sighs, just nuzzling the panties for a long moment before letting Hannibal help him into them. The belt goes on next, fastened by a row of hooks up the back. It covers him from this waist to just below his nipples, and the panties actually have room for his balls.

“D-did you order these for me?”

“They weren't expensive,” Hannibal says, fastening the last hook and then attaching stocking suspenders to the bottom edge of the belt, kneeling at Will's feet and sighing as he runs his hands over his hairless legs. “I estimated the measurements,” he adds, and gathers one sheer blue stocking, pulling the toe over Will's foot.

“I can't fucking believe you,” Will says, and Hannibal just smiles up at him.

The stockings glide up and over his legs just the way they're supposed to, the soft slide of them mixing perfectly with their creamy-sour taste. Will shivers as Hannibal attaches them to the belt, and then stands on blue-tinted feet. He's afraid to look into the mirror, but he walks over and slowly raises his eyes anyway. His reflection looks as shy as he feels, a delicate, nervous creature, poised like a deer about to run. His hair loose, androgynous cloud of curls, and he gazes at himself with wide, smoky eyes, and the belt and panties skim over the lines of his skinny body in a way that makes it almost elegant. Hannibal comes up behind him, smiling softly as their eyes meet in the mirror. He kisses Will's shoulder, the feeling ripples over his skin, far out of proportion to the caress.

“You're already so pretty,” Hannibal murmurs, “but I know you want to choose a dress.”

“I do,” Will whispers, and manages to tear himself away from the mirror so Hannibal can show him his options. One is smooth, frosty berry-pink, the other fluttery white and tasting like a flower. Both of them look like cheaper knockoffs of his own designs, and Hannibal barely has to help him when he pulls the pink one on. Will believes in making clothes for real people, and this is accordingly simple, with a cross-my-heart neckline, a full skirt, and a barely-fitted waist. On him the fluffy skirt hits well above the knee, and he looks waifish and fragile, butterfly sleeves de-emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the muscle in his arms.

“Lovely,” Hannibal purrs, and kisses Will's smooth cheek and neck.


	13. Chocolate And Spice

Will had assumed that if they got this far, Hannibal would want him on the bottom, would want to take 'feminine' all the way up to 'yonic,' but here he is, sprawled under Will and moaning helplessly as Will pushes two gentle fingers into him, his clothes draped everywhere in a sloppy way that Will knows is unusual for him. As soon as Will had looked his fill at the stranger in the mirror, Hannibal had actually fucking carried him to bed. It was a weird feeling, like being just as fragile as he is precious, and Will has the feeling he won't know if he actually liked it or not until tomorrow. 

Right now Will is just glad that he's versatile enough to keep real lube around for himself, making the slide into Hannibal utterly smooth as he sprawls under Will, one arm thrown over his face as he moans quietly with every single move Will makes. Will shudders, pushing a little harder to see if he can make Hannibal any louder. He groans deep in his chest and lowers his arm, looking up at Will with dilated eyes.

“Please, Will,” he whispers, tilting his hips up a little more, bare feet planted on the mattress, “please, please, more...”

Will shudders and licks suddenly dry lips. He can still hardly believe it, that he gets to be covered in beautiful berry-soft silkiness, soft and fragile and precious, _and_ gets to fuck Hannibal. The raw, unbearable fucking delight of it makes him feel more than a little crazy, and he has to slow down and take a deep breath, fingertips just barely stroking deep inside Hannibal while he whimpers in a way Will wouldn't have believed.

“Gotta go slow,” Will murmurs, more to himself than to Hannibal. “Don't want to hurt you.”

Hannibal closes his eyes and moans, the light flush all over him deepening. “...It would be okay if you did,” he says softly, and it's Will's turn to let out a stricken whine, pitching forward to hide his face in Hannibal's chest for a moment. Hannibal slides gentle hands up Will's legs and then back down again, setting a rhythm that soothes and teases at the same time.

“Okay,” Will whispers without sitting up, his voice shaking, “okay.” He slides his fingers out of Hannibal, who makes a noise like he needed them inside him to live, and shudders. “Okay,” he says again, feeling like he doesn't know any other words. 

He leans away to get a condom out of the bedside drawer and then poises himself over Hannibal again. He hesitates for just a moment, and then just pulls the panties aside to roll the condom on, while Hannibal gazes up at him like he's some sort of divine visitation. Will slicks his cock and then carefully lines himself up with Hannibal, pressing forward gently. Gently until Hannibal gets his hands under Will's skirt to grab his hips and pull him in hard, letting out a loud, guttural, and wonderfully undignified sound that Will wants to hear again. So he pulls back a little and drives in even harder, and Hannibal makes the same formless noise and clutches at him, babbling and pleading, weaving in and out of English when he does actually manage words. He just _wants_ so much, is so happy to take everything Will gives him.

Will has had problems with that before, people needing him to ease up when he gets like this, but Hannibal just puts one long, heavy leg over Will's shoulder and wails for more, shameless and hungry. Even as Will picks up speed, throwing all his strength into fucking Hannibal through the mattress, he just moans and takes it, his eyes limpid and dark whenever he can force them open to watch Will. All of his colors, every little variance in skin tone and between different strands of hair are overlaying sight with taste and sound. Will leans down to kiss Hannibal, surprised to find him flexible enough that his leg just pushes back to his chest, with no apparent difficulty. Leaning on Hannibal's thigh, Will can kiss him and taste the way he moans, a flavor like chocolate and spice. He bites Hannibal's lip and Hannibal clenches around him, tipping his head back and offering up his throat to Will's teeth. 

Will bites him there, so hard that it compresses Hannibal's next moan a little, choking the sound. He keeps his grip as Hannibal keens, suddenly coming without either of them touching his cock. He shakes and clamps down on Will in the steady and inexorable rhythm of climax. Feeling his partner come isn't always enough to pull Will along with them, but it helps, and there's no way it's not happening now, dressed and with Hannibal spread out under him like a feast. Three or four thrusts more and he's a shuddering mess, panting into the crook of Hannibal's neck as he comes harder than he has in years.

At last Will melts onto Hannibal, physically unable to do anything else, even if it means getting Hannibal's jizz all over the dress. Hopefully it's wash and wear. He sighs, and presses lazy little kisses to the bruise that's already forming on Hannibal's throat.

“Thank you,” he says softly, meaning it but feeling stupid the second it leaves his mouth. “For dressing me, I mean,” he adds softly, and Hannibal chuckles, stroking his hair.

“You are more than welcome, sweet boy,” he says softly, and Will hugs him tightly, swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat.

“...I think I like you a lot,” he mutters, and Hannibal laughs, which pushes Will's soft cock out of him and makes him laugh harder while Will snickers against his neck.

“I like you a lot, too, Will,” he says, kissing the top of his head and then laughing again as the cats start mewing and pawing at the door.


	14. Cuddling With The Cats Like An Old Married Couple

It's good for Will to have someone with him as the show gets closer and closer. At the 'setting an alarm to remember to eat' stage, Hannibal is invaluable. He tempts Will away from last minute hand sewing to feed him, sometimes literally bite by bite. With their current schedule he can't cook for Will as often or elaborately as he says he would like to, but he always manages to make or order something delicious. After the fourth three am feast in a row, Will asks him if it's a kink. Hannibal stops, a morsel of tofu poised on his chopsticks, and laughs.

“So it isn't?” Will asks, picking up one for himself.

“No,” Hannibal says, “it's more that 'kink' doesn't go far enough. However, I am interested in seeing you properly nourished and enjoying it, not in fattening you up or stuffing you or anything.”

“Really, Hannibal,” Will says, watching him eat and wondering if it's possible to catch a kink the way you catch a cold, “no stuffing? How disappointing.”

Hannibal snorts. “You're a filthy boy, and that delights me.”

Will can feel himself blushing even as he laughs. 

The sad part is that they don't really have time for any of their perversions anymore. Will wears panties to the studio a few times, and there's a memorable interlude in a supply closet, but now they're less than a week out, and it's all about the show. Will's world is nothing but but colors and shapes, and while Hannibal seems very pleased to keep sharing his bed, they're usually too tired to get up to much. Still, it's nice to drift off and wake up the scent and warmth of him, and he's very helpful during Will's next sensory overload at work, leading him off to the bathroom, which is cool and clean white, and very quiet. He sits him down on the closed lid of the toilet and crouches in front of him, not taking his hands until Will is able to open his eyes and look at him.

“Better?” Hannibal says softly, and Will smiles down at him, squeezing his hands.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He presses a kiss to the back of each one while Hannibal gazes up at him, the funny red-brown of his eyes sweeter than ever. Will leans down and kisses his forehead and then his mouth, when he makes a longing little noise. “We have to get back to work,” Will murmurs against Hannibal's lips as he pulls away, and Hannibal sighs ruefully and stands.

“Yes, we do,” he says softly, and kisses Will's cheek again before leaving him to wash his hands and splash cool water on his face, which always helps to ground him at times like this. A few deep breaths later and he can go back to the studio, still so full of sound. It's the last studio day, and this time Will is going to be more involved with the actual runway part of things than he usually is. For one thing, that Reba girl is blind, and Will wants to offer moral support (and physical in case of accident) while she counts her paces and familiarizes herself with the floor texture. For another, Hannibal wants him there to consult, and what Hannibal wants has already started to matter a lot. He glances over to where Hannibal is in the middle of some earnest discussion with Jack (probably about runway music, something he cares about to an endearing extent) and smiles. Hannibal seems to feel his gaze, turning his head to smile back.

“You guys are _precious_ ,” Beverly informs him, and Will rolls his eyes.

Still, when Hannibal takes Will's hand as they're leaving that night, Will just squeezes it and laces their fingers together, not caring who's watching. They have to be at their rented ballroom by six tomorrow morning, so they end up cuddling with the cats like an old married couple and actually getting enough sleep.

“You know,” Hannibal says, pouring some kind of meal replacement smoothie into two travel mugs, “I think your presence is good for me. Even with nothing to do, I usually end up sitting up all night and then taking Modafinil.”

“And you say I'm unhealthy,” Will says, pulling his shirt on over his head.

The morning flies by in a blur of inventory, swigs of surprisingly tasty meal replacement, and last-minute arguments with the lighting techs. The hair and makeup people are there by eight, and the models start showing up half an hour later, though they won't be late until ten.

Reba is one of the earliest, and turns out to be very nice. She makes her first pass in sneakers, and Will walks beside her in silence so he won't interfere with her pace count. On the second pass they talk about the line, Will describing the outfits to her. She says his sensory perspective is refreshing, and then asks for silence when she makes a test run of the high-heeled boots that go with the flightsuit. Will can't help but worry because watching anyone do a dramatic turn in heels worries him, but Reba does it flawlessly, and then does it flawlessly again before going back to start her elaborate cosmetic preparations.


	15. Can I Just Kinda Lick Your Face

Will would stay all day and fuss over every last-minute touch, but Hannibal drags him out for lunch and again for dinner. The last hour is taken up by making themselves presentable, which is merely the beginning of Will's least favorite part. He kind of wishes he was still just a gifted dressmaker and not actually expected to show up for these things, but it's a lot easier to endure crowds and journalism when Hannibal is with him. After the usual stupid questions and banal conversation, Will can finally sit down and watch the girls walk in their full regalia. Even after watching so many dry runs of perilous shoes, long skirts, and other complicated pieces, there's something magical about it. All of Hannibal's nitpicking of light and music has paid off, and everything looks amazing. Reba is stunning in her radiant gold, and the phantom sounds of every color mix perfectly with the music. He gives Hannibal a sidelong look when he notices, and Hannibal just smiles.

After, they're expected to mingle. This is usually Will's second least favorite part, but this time it's a lot more bearable. For one thing, both of Hannibal's sisters are here. Mischa Lecter is much smaller than photographers make her look, and has a kind of artless fragility that he wouldn't have expected. Chiyoh and Hannibal are both protective of her, and non-work Chiyoh is adorable, shy and sweet but still very acidic with Hannibal. She's wearing one of Will's earliest designs, and blushes when he recognizes it.

“Chiyoh always knew you were destined for greatness,” Hannibal says, and she rolls her eyes and mutters something in Japanese that makes him laugh.

Somewhere around Will's third glass of champagne, Reba comes up hand-in-hand with her hulking escort. He turns out to be Francis Dolarhyde, and of course Hannibal has actually seen his acclaimed documentary on nocturnal animals. Will has read an interview or two and recognizes a kindred spirit. He doesn't like being around this many people either, and speaks very carefully around his repaired cleft palate.

Soon they're a cozy little group in one corner of the seating area, and Reba is gently feeling Mischa's face to see how it has changed since she lost her actual sight a decade ago.

“You've grown up so lovely,” she says, and of course this starts a complete round of face-touching. There are times that Will has used his synesthesia as a sort of a party game before, such as the time in college when everyone was a little drunk and girls started passing him lipsticks, asking what sound each color made. Now Reba describes everyone from her tactile perspective. She keeps it light and brief, and Will has a feeling that it's to keep Francis from getting jealous. Not that Reba seems afraid of him. Perhaps just a little bit _for_ him. He does look at her like he can't believe someone like her would have anything to do with him, and they've been together for years. Will can relate, watching her dark and elegant fingers on the pale, purring angles of Hannibal's face.

It's just a little twinge, though, since Hannibal comes home with Will at the end of the night. They're tired enough to sit in the back of the cab in complete silence, and when they get up to the apartment, Will only hangs his clothes up after peeling them off because he knows that Hannibal will do it if he doesn't. The cats follow them to the couch, where Will cuddles into Hannibal's arms. He would go to bed if dinner hadn't been about six hours ago. As it is, there's no point and they both know it. On cue, Hannibal's stomach growls, and Will chuckles, putting a hand on his belly.

“Poor baby,” He coos, and Hannibal smiles. Some shift in the light makes Will want to lick his face again, and he groans.

“What is it?”

“...You knew I was weird before we started this. Can I just kinda lick your face for a minute?”

Hannibal laughs. “Feel free, Will.” It's just a way of speaking, but as Will shifts to straddle him, the better to run his tongue from the point of Hannibal's chin to the hinge of his jaw, he really does feel free. It's a good feeling, and he takes his time about tracing all those tantalizing angles, enjoying the prickle of new stubble coming in. It takes him a moment to realize that Hannibal isn't just being tolerant but is actually enjoying himself, relaxing against the back of the couch, half-hard against Will as he lets out a real purr to mingle with his phantom sounds.

“Thank god you're a freak like me,” Will whispers into his ear, and Hannibal chuckles, sounding a little breathless.

“I will want to wash my face after this,” he says, and Will laughs.

“Of course,” he says, and takes another minute or so before he lets Hannibal up. “Face-washing, delivery, and then screwing if we have the energy?” He asks, and Hannibal grins.

“Absolutely,” he says, and kisses Will, getting up and padding off to the bathroom on silent feet, cooing at Peanut Butter as she follows him. Sammy follows her, and Frangelico remains to supervise Will as he digs up the number of an all-night soul food place that he always finds himself missing desperately when he's home in Wolf Trap.

Hannibal ends up extending his scrubbing up into an actual shower, which is probably a good idea. By the time he emerges Will is setting out ham hocks and pecan pie and wondering if he maybe shouldn't have gotten Italian. Hannibal just smiles and fetches plates and real silverware. 

“I know very little about American cuisine,” he says as they sit down, “but I'm eager to learn.”

Will yawn, and chuckles. “Good. If you visit me in Wolf Trap there's going to be a lot of fried fish.”

Hannibal smiles, taking Will's hand. “I look forward to it.”


End file.
